I'll Be Here All Week

by Anderson Ward

  “Work? This the same work you were offering me before I fired you?”

  “Yeah.” Rodney tries to laugh. It comes off phony. “Better than that.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Listen, are you still pissed?” Rodney asks. “Because I can get you some really good gigs. All you’ve got to do is say so and they’re yours. You stop being pissed, and we can do some real business here. Or you can take everything personal and miss out on some sweet work.”

  “What kind of gigs?”

  “Good gigs,” Rodney says. “Some good stuff. Funny Bones. Improvs. All the good places. Top clubs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You offering me this because I’m that good?” Spence says. “Or because I just did The Tonight Show and you can make some money off me?”

  “Does it matter? You just did The Tonight Show, baby. Your ticket up that ladder.”

  Spence thinks for a minute and wonders if Rodney has a very good point. That A-list work has always been the goal. Does it really matter how he finally got it, or even why? As long as it’s keeping him from being the late-shift manager at Second Cup, isn’t that the point? And if Rodney is the enemy, isn’t it better to keep him close?

  “What does that mean? What kind of touring are we talking about?”

  “Well, a lot of the same stuff,” Rodney says. “I won’t lie to you. But a lot of really good gigs. I can get you some casinos, too. Just like I said.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Good money.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like more than what you were making before,” Rodney says. “Not TV star cash. But a little more here and there.”

  Spence looks in the minibar and thinks about a little bottle of Hennessey. Or, better yet, nothing. Room service would be great. He could get a nice steak and then call Sam and talk about when he’s flying back to Toronto. Maybe she’ll go on the road with him. If he made more money, she could quit her job and travel with him. But what Rodney is offering sounds like a lot of travel.

  More money, less touring, Spence thinks.

  “I’ve gotta be honest with you,” he says. “That doesn’t sound so great.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rodney says. “That’s the best deal going for you. That’s the best thing out there. Top clubs. Top pay—”

  “It’s not top pay,” Spence interrupts.

  “It’s good pay.”

  “Fine,” Spence says, “but it ain’t great.”

  “Better than what you’ve had.”

  Spence takes a deep breath and sighs loudly into the phone. He likes the idea of making Rodney wait the way he always had to when Rodney was multitasking. “You know what I didn’t hear?” he says. “I didn’t hear the words ‘A-list’ come out of your mouth.”

  Rodney chuckles. “It ain’t that easy, kid.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you did one spot on The Tonight Show. That’s great. But that doesn’t change things overnight.”

  “It used to.”

  “And there used to be three channels on the TV,” Rodney says. “But things are different now. You’ve definitely shown your chops, pal. But I’ve got guys that have done Letterman a few times who still aren’t at the top of that ladder.”

  “Then what’s the point?” Spence asks.

  “To keep climbing it,” Rodney says.

  Spence feels the skip in his step turning into more of a dragging of his feet. He wanted the high of what he just did to last longer before the reality of his career came barreling up like a Toyota in the middle of Iowa.

  “You wanted to prove me wrong, and you did,” Rodney says. “You want me to show you I believe in you? Look at the gigs I can get you. That’s your proof, my friend.”

  “Better gigs,” Spence says.

  “It’s work,” Rodney says. There’s a long pause after this, and Spence sits there for a minute and takes it in. Rodney is right; it is work. After tonight, there’s probably plenty of work in plenty of clubs. He’ll probably get more gigs in places way better than the Electric Pony. He might even get a full calendar of nothing but weeklong gigs in nice clubs like the Improv in Hollywood or Carolines in New York City. But one appearance on The Tonight Show isn’t going to make him a star overnight. Now, more than ever, Spence wishes it were 1987. He wishes he’d just had this TV spot during The Boom.

  “How much work do you think?” he asks Rodney while he does a little math in his head.

  “I dunno,” Rodney says. “Probably as much as fifty weeks. Whatever you want. However much you wanna work.”

  “On the road. Doing club gigs.”

  “Yeah,” Rodney says. It almost sounds like a question. “That’s the job, remember?”

  “Fifty weeks.”

  “That’s being a comedian.”

  “I guess it is, yeah,” Spence says. He hears a beep on the phone and knows it’s Sam sending him another text message. He wants to see what she’s writing, but he has to hang up on Rodney to do so. On the other end of the phone, he can hear Rodney tapping a pen on the desk. He looks around the hotel room and at the familiar setup. He looks down at his suitcase on the floor.

  Tour less, make more, he thinks.

  “So,” Rodney asks after a minute of silence, “what do you say?”

  Spence sits for a few seconds that feels like a half hour. Then he says, “I have to call you back.”

  “What?” Rodney asks.

  “I have to call you back,” Spence repeats. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Okay. You know where to find me.”

  “I do,” Spence says and hangs up the phone. He doesn’t sit down. He doesn’t move an inch from here he’s standing. He dials Sam, and she answers almost immediately.

  “Hey, you.” Her voice sounds amazing. She sounds happy and sultry and quirky and sexy. Everything Spence thinks about her is how she sounds in just two words. It’s just what he needed to hear.

  “I love you,” he says. A stupid grin instantly appears on his face.

  “I love you, too.” Sam giggles. “That all you had to say?”

  “No.” Spence turns around and faces the other wall. He feels like walking somewhere or pacing the room or jumping up and down. Instead he just stands there and changes direction. “But I did need to say it. I haven’t yet, and I needed to. I needed you to hear it. To know it.”

  There’s a pause before Sam speaks again. “Well, I do know it. But it is nice to hear.”

  “And you’d hate living on the road.”

  “I’d hate what?”

  “Living on the road, like I do. Town to town. Going to shows all over the country.”

  “Is this a trick question?” Sam asks.

  “It’s not a question at all,” Spence says. “If I went on tour and brought you with me, you’d probably hate it.”

  “Well, I have always wanted to see Chicago.”

  “How about the other fifty-one weeks in a year?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Spence looks down at his feet. He could use that new pair of shoes now. He sits down on the edge of the hotel bed. “I don’t think I’d want that, either.”

  “What brought this on?” Sam asks. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to watch yourself on TV and bask in all its glory? Everyone at work can’t wait to see it.”

  “Me too.” Spence nods, even though Sam can’t see him do it. “But it took doing that show today to make me realize a few things.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “I’m good at it,” he says. “Being a comedian.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “But I don’t know that I care anymore. I mean, it’s great to make people laugh. But that might just be the only part that matters at all to me anymore. The only part I remotely like.”

  Sam chuckles quietly into the phone. “And you realized this after performing stand-up comedy on The Ton
ight Show?”

  “Is it ironic?” Spence asks, not sure why he’s smiling.

  “A little,” Sam says. “But not surprising to anyone who knows you.”

  “That’s just it,” Spence says, leaning forward. “No one knows me but you. I’m not sure anyone ever really did.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, bring me back a bottle of whatever you’re having,” Sam says. “Because I like the effect it has on you better than whatever you normally drink.”

  Spence laughs and lies back on the bed. The hotel is so nice, he thinks nothing of being on top of the comforter. He never wants to have to throw a dirty hotel comforter on the floor again. “It’s true, you know,” he says. “All of it.”

  “I know,” Sam says quietly. Spence can tell she’s blushing a little bit just from the sound of her voice.

  “And I think what happened today made me realize that I’ve been reaching for the wrong goal all along,” he says. “I was trying to get something that was never going to make me as happy as something I already have.”

  “And that something is . . . ?”

  “A district manager for the Gap.”

  “I see,” Sam teases. “Think you got me, do you?”

  “I can only hope.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Does this mean you’ll have me?” Spence asks.

  “Silly. I’m already yours.” She laughs. “You had me at dick jokes.”

  This makes Spence laugh out loud, and he runs his hand through his hair. He’s almost forty-two years old. This is probably the worst time for a career change, immigration to another country, and relationship with a woman he spends more time with on the phone than in person. A woman he met in another city while doing the job he’s now considering leaving right a time when everyone he knows would think he was crazy for doing it.

  “I’ve got some ideas.” Spence exhales deeply and shakes his head at himself.

  “I’m listening.”

  “First thing’s first,” he says and sits up on the bed again, his feet feeling the cushy carpet between his toes. “Just know that I love you.”

  “I love you, too. You’re my TV star.”

  “For one night, at least.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she says. “I hope you know that. I never fell for you because you’re an entertainer. Or because you were that guy on the stage that night. Or because you’re so funny and can make everyone laugh like you do.”

  “I thought that women always wanted a man who can make them laugh.” Spence grins. He always thought that was the silliest line. If women want funny men so much, how come Brad Pitt is always on the cover of People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” and not Drew Carey?

  “But it’s easy to make me laugh,” Sam says. “I love you because you know how to make me smile.”

  It’s at that moment that Spence realizes exactly what he wants and where he wants to be. He stands up again and walks over to the window. A million crazy thoughts are running through his head, but one of them seems like it might just work. He smiles and crosses his fingers.

  “I have to make a phone call,” he says to Sam. “Let me call you back?”

  “Always.” She makes a kiss noise through the phone and hangs up. Spence feels like he’s seventeen again as he immediately starts dialing the phone again.

  “Yo,” Rodney answers on the second ring. It’s the first time he’s ever done that.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Spence asks without bothering to introduce himself. “You get fifteen percent, correct?”

  “Yep,” Rodney says. “Depending on the gig, of course.”

  “Let’s call it fifteen percent,” Spence says. “But I’m looking for a specific gig.”

  “Where?”

  “Toronto.”

  “For when?”

  “For good,” Spence says.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Rodney asks.

  “I’m talking about I have an idea,” Spence says and paces the hotel room. “And if I know you and the million pies you always have your fingers in, I think it’s possible that you might be able to help me help both of us. The right phone calls, the right demo, the right auditions. I think it could work out well for everyone. If you’re willing to try something different.”

  “Yeah?” Rodney says, and it sounds as if he’s actually sitting on the edge of his seat. “What’d you have in mind?”

  21

  Spence’s headphones feel a little loose, so he tightens the top of them during the commercial break. Going over his notes, he quickly rereads the asides he came up with earlier in the day but hasn’t had a chance to use yet. He can probably get off a few quick one-liners here and there before the show wraps for the day. Across the desk, Skip is checking the time left on whatever song is playing and gives him a nod that there’s less than thirty seconds to go.

  “Just another weekday morning with Mad Man Skip and the Gang,” a prerecorded voice plays over the airwaves, “on Toronto’s hit music station, the Wolf.”

  The sound of a wolf howling at the moon is heard, followed by a crazy scream and the sound of a guitar thrashing a hard rock chord. Skip nods his head and flips a switch on the soundboard. A red light goes on in the corner of the room to let everyone know that the show is now live on the air.

  “Mad Man Skip in the morning,” Skip says, a big smile on his face. There’s an old saying in radio that, even if people can’t see you, they can hear whether or not you are smiling. Skip firmly believes that and lives by the motto. “Wrapping up another long set of favorite hit tunes right here on Toronto’s number one home for rock. This is the Wolf, and this is Thursday morning. Sitting across from me, my partner in crime. How you doing, Spence?”

  “I’m still awake, so that’s good news,” Spence says as the sound of a jackhammer plays in the background for no reason whatsoever but to make background noise. He follows Skip’s lead and smiles as big as he can.

  Skip and Spence, he thinks. It sounds corny, but he likes it.

  Skip has been a great new boss and is quickly becoming a fast friend. In his fifties, he has been doing radio forever. He knows his days on the air are numbered, and he likes having a younger guy next to him to carry a lot of the heavy load. Spence doesn’t mind it, either, since he plays well off his boss. Skip and Spence. It’s a ridiculous-sounding combo, but at least he’s not called “Monkey-Boy.”

  “Hey, Spence,” Skip says while checking the digital clock on the wall, “I see you’re gonna be doing a little stand-up this weekend, huh?”

  “That’s right,” he says. “Everyone out there can come check me out tonight through Sunday at Absolute Comedy at Yonge and Eglinton. I’ll be hosting the show all weekend.”

  “Nice,” Skip says, “and while you’re there checking out the show, be sure to pick yourself up an ice-cold Molson Canadian. The true Canadian beer, Molson is available at Absolute Comedy and all across the country. Truly Molson, truly Canadian.”

  “Nice plug,” Spence says.

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Skip says. The sound of a cash register is played and a loud “cha-ching” noise fills Spence’s headphones. Presumably, somewhere in Toronto, morning commuters are hopefully at least cracking a smile.

  “You get paid?” Spence says. “I need to renegotiate my contract. I’ve been doing this crap for free.”

  Skip laughs and makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Counting Crows up next. It’s Mad Man Skip with Spence in the Morning on the Wolf. But first? Here’s Megan with traffic and weather.”

  Skip takes of his headphones and steps out from behind the desk. Slapping a hand on Spence’s shoulder, he retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. His long ponytail has gone gray. He looks like an aging hippie, which is pretty much what he is. He’s also technically a liar. The radio station is actually not number one. Recent numbers say it comes in third out of six. Not half ba
d, really. But not first.

  “Going for a smoke.” Skip smiles. “See you in ten, okay?”

  “You got it.” Spence nods and takes off his headphones.

  “I’m coming out to the gig tomorrow. Bringing the wife.”

  “I get to finally meet Mrs. Skip?” Spence says.

  “Mrs. Skip number three,” Skip corrects and coughs. His husky DJ voice is probably due in part to the smokes he’s getting ready to inhale. He steps out of the booth and walks down the hall.

  Spence takes a look at the digital clock and decides to grab a quick cup of coffee. There’re a few songs left to play and then some commercials, but they’re all lined up and automated. He gets up from his small corner in the booth and steps out into the hallway. There, staring him straight in the face, is his own photo. A poster of him and Skip smiling like idiots in some wacky pose. The framed poster is the same one he’s seen recently on a couple of bus stop stands. He looks ridiculous, but Sam was right. He definitely looks better now that he has stopped highlighting his hair.

  He smiles. He hasn’t been behind the wheel of a car in months. He takes the subway to work every day and, when he can, walks as much as possible. He’s been told that, when winter hits in a few weeks, he’ll walk less. He wonders if that’s true. He likes to think that he’ll suck it up better than people think he will, but it doesn’t matter. Whether it’s on a bus or a streetcar or subway train, it sure as hell beats being behind the wheel for eight hours a day. He can’t imagine driving across Iowa anymore.

  “Time for a recharge?” A sales guy spots him in the break room and offers him a cup of coffee. Spence chuckles politely and takes the cup. The early hours took some getting used to at first, but he’s doing okay now. He used to go to bed around four, so it’s different for him to be getting up not long after that and making the trek downtown to be on the air by six. A year ago, he couldn’t have imagined going to bed before eleven every night.

  “Sounding good today,” the sales guy says and raises his cup. He raises his back and thanks him, although he can’t remember the guy’s name. There are so many people that work at the Wolf, it can be pretty overwhelming. The hardest part has never been the early hours or the public promotions or even the silly, censored jokes over the airwaves; it’s keeping up with the dozens of other employees and who the hell they all are. People randomly walk by him and pat his back.